Doors
by Wren Gebel
Summary: Durring Harry's stay at Grimmauld Place he finds a room filled with doors that don't seem to go anywhere untill he stumbles through one. One-Shot. Set during the summer before Harry's fifth year.


**A/N: Written for the QLFC round 6. I'm Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps and my prompt this time was to write for the adventure genre. This is what I came up with. Credits for the idea though, actually goes to .Xanda who came up with the main thing. I left the ending kinda open without really explaining anything so that I could continue this later if I wanted to in a couple other chapters. Let me know what you think. **

**With love,**

 **Wren Gebel**

* * *

Harry walked down the dark upper hallway in Grimmauld Place. He'd just finished helping clear the Doxies out from behind the curtains in the drawing room and he was venturing around the house his godfather had grown up in. It was weird to him to imagine Sirius growing up in a place as dark and foreboding as this.

The floorboards complained loudly at Harry for disturbing them after years of being left alone. And the dust tried to blind him by flying high up in the air with his every step.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Originally he'd planned on heading to his room until dinner to silently brood, but on his way he'd noticed that the rickety steps and squeaky hallways kept going up for what seemed like forever.

Just as soon as he thought he'd reached the top of the home there were another set of steps going up just a bit further. Most of the rooms he had peered into were barren. Sometimes furniture under white sheets sat like dusty ghosts and something would scurry into a dark corner when Harry shone the light from his wand into a room.

Nothing seemed too interesting. Dusty furniture didn't exactly draw Harry in to explore more.

His footsteps were muffled by a dark green carpet on this floor that puffed out dust like a factory puffs out smoke. He opened a door to his right with a vibrating creek to reveal a room brimming with tea sets. Little China cups sat delicately on platters all over the room in a various arrays of colours and sizes and shapes.

He shut the door, not even bothering to look around for the floor was too packed with cups to move, and walked on to the next room. This door didn't make a sound as he entered, the first one so far to not squeal, and also the first room to raise his brow. What he found inside was definitely strange, even for Grimmauld Place.

Doors. That's what he saw. Rows and rows of doors standing upright in frames. Some were open, others were tightly closed, but they all stood facing the same direction, looking uniformly, exactly, the same.

Harry reached out to the first door, running his hand along the black wood and brass handle. There was a chip on this handle, but, moving to the next door, Harry found there was the exact same chip missing from its handle as well. In fact, he began notice that all the doors had the same piece missing.

Besides the strangeness of their uniformity, Harry swore he recognized the doors. Touching the frame of one, he squinted his eyes up at the number twelve nailed neatly into the wood. It was too familiar, making him uncomfortable. Then it dawned on him. He had seen them before. They were front doors to Grimmauld Place.

He frowned, testing the handle. It was locked, but the one to the left of it opened easily, swinging away from him toward the back of the room.

His nose bunched up in confusion. It didn't make any sense. Why have all these doors, looking exactly the same, especially if they didn't lead anywhere?

He leaned forward, sticking his head through the doorframe. The front hallway of Grimmauld Place sprung up in front of him suddenly, causing him to start and trip forward. His hands grabbed blindly for something to stop his fall, finding the door handle and yanking it off with his force.

His stood up straight quickly, righting himself, dropping the handle awkwardly to the floor, and brushing the confusion from his face. He looked back at the door which was still open, but revealing the overcast sky outside instead of the upstairs room he'd just come out of. He bit his cheek. So the door was some sort of portkey? A way to get down to the main hall quickly?

His musings were interrupted by a waft of dinner floating to his nostrils from the kitchen. He could hear Mrs. Weasley clanking around, banging pots together, and the scrape of a spoon on the bottom of a dish as she stirred something.

Harry shut the door behind him and headed to the kitchen.

The smell was strong right outside the door, but when he opened it, there was nothing on the stove. He looked around, squinting. Where was Mrs. Weasley? And the food? He'd just heard her in here only moments before, but it was clear the kitchen was empty.

Harry moved to the counters. They were laden with dust and looked like the hadn't been used in years.

Something was wrong.

He tried the knobs on the oven, but the stove wouldn't light or even gas. And the pantry had nothing other than mouse droppings and cobwebs.

A clanking noise made him turn. Somewhere someone was moving a pot. They sounded right there, in the room with him, but he couldn't see a thing.

"Hello?" he asked the air, drawing his wand. "Who's there?"

Someone started humming. Mrs. Weasley. She was right there! In the room with him! Just hiding in the corner of his eye so that when he looked she jumped away.

"Mrs. Weasley?" He took a tentative step forward.

Her humming continued as if she hadn't heard him.

He tried to watch her out the side of his eye, but she was fuzzy like she wasn't really there at all.

What was happening to him? Had he gone mad? Had he hit his head when he'd fallen through the door and this was all a dream? Why couldn't she see him? Why couldn't he see her properly?

The sound of the door banging open startled him. He looked to it, but of course it hadn't opened.

Then he heard Ron's voice. "Mum! Come quick!" he sounded frantic. Harry squinted in the direction of his voice but couldn't see a thing.

"What is it?" Mrs. Weasley asked quickly.

"It's Harry! Quick!"

Harry jumped at the sound of his own name.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps and a glimmer of red hair at the door that told Harry Ron and Mrs. Weasley were leaving and he followed quickly.

He listened to the sound of their footsteps and caught a glance as they turned up the stairs.

They seemed to stop outside his bedroom where anxious voices were coming from.

He opened the door and saw Hermione crying on the bed next to Ron who was holding her around the shoulders and Mrs. Weasley who was bent over someone on the bed.

Harry moved around them and they flickered like pictures from an old projector.

His eyes widened and his brow narrowed when he saw who was on the bed. It was him! He was lying there, dead-still. But at the same time, it wasn't him. His body wasn't breathing and something was wrong with his face.

Harry moved closer, walking through Mrs. Weasley's outline easily. He started. The Harry on the bed's face was gone. In its place was the snake-like profile of Voldemort, looking cold and dead.

His heart picked up, pumping adrenaline to his muscles. What was happening? Why did the thing on the bed look like him and Voldemort at the same time? It couldn't be him. It couldn't! Harry was right here! He touched his face and looked at his hands to make sure he wasn't the picture from a projector.

"What do we do?" asked Hermione.

Harry turned around and they were all standing together, looking to the bed.

"We have to burn him," said Mrs. Weasley. Her voice was wrong, off, like there was something inside her throat, talking for her when her mouth opened. "It's the only way to get the evil out."

They each to out their wand and pointed, only they were pointing right at Harry. The real Harry. The one standing before them.

His eyes widened and he ducked as the first spell skimmed his head, missing him by and inch and blowing a hole in the wall.

"Stop!" he yelled, throwing up his hands. "I'm fine! Look!"

He turned his face to them, but Ron flicked his wand and sent another spell hurling his way.

Harry didn't wait for another blast. He ran from the room, to the stairs.

Another blast hit the railing, just missing him. He turned quickly and threw a disarming spell at Ron, but he deflected it with a flick of his wand.

Harry's heart pumped and he felt like crying. What was going on? Why were they doing this? It wasn't right.

His feet pounded up the stairs as quick as his pulse was pounding inside his skin.

The doors, he thought. I need to go back through the door.

He skipped the steps, two at a time, feeling the heat from the rain of spells behind him. Which floor had he been on again? He closed his eyes briefly to remember. The carpet. It had been green.

He looked at the floor as it passed on his way up. It was hardwood. And the next one was maroon.

His throat tightened, looking back he could see Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Hermione chasing after him with determined expressions and glassy eyes.

There was the green carpet! He sprung out, nearly slipping on the rug and dashed down the hall, banging open doors as he went for the one with the doors inside.

Finally, he found it.

Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley were in the doorway with him before he had time to think. He dashed for the middle door, the one he was sure he'd come through, and dived inside it a spell nicked his trousers.

The front hall sprung up again, just like it had last time.

Harry gasped and bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavy.

Something moved in the hallway ahead of him. He drew his wand, bracing himself for another attack.

Ron stepped out of the shadows. "Hey, Harry! There you are!" he said and then stopped at the sight of his panting friend. "What's wrong?"

Harry swallowed thickly, trying to catch his breath. Despite himself, he felt a smile tugging at his lips at the hilarity of what had just happened. "It's a long story," he laughed.

Ron squinted. "Well, you can tell it over dinner 'cause it's time to eat!"

Harry nodded, pocketing his wand as his stomach growled.


End file.
